A Peek Into the Past
by Eli'isa Kensen
Summary: Haven't you ever wondered at the backstory of one or more of the main characters of Tangled? Say, the bad guy? Well, I have too. Here it is. Rated T for some violence, no cursing, some instances of more mature speech.
1. Chapter 1

"Neiva!"

"I'm not gonna!"

"Just jump! Come on, you'll like it!"

"I'm not gonna jump!"

"Come _on_, Neiva!"

I stand at the top of the wet rock, bone dry, crossing my arms defiantly. I shake my head again. "No! You can't make me."

In the water below, clothed in her usual bright blue garb, soaking wet, Alora pouts dramatically. "Why not?"

"Because!" I sigh. "You know how much my hair frizzes when it gets wet. Plus, I don't have any proper swimwear. What am I going to wear when we have to go back to the village?"

"You'll dry off! Come on," Alora pleads. "You'll like it!"

"I'm not going to, and you can't make me," I reply defiantly, planting my feet firmly.

Suddenly, Alora's face breaks into a grin. "Maybe I can't... but he might."

"Who-" my sentence is broken off as I'm picked up like a rag doll and tossed off the rock into the river. Annoyed, I come back up, spluttering. "What do you think-" suddenly, I see who it is, and my lips curl into a wry smile. "Jordan Kilst, I hate you."

Jordan looks down at me and grins. "That'd be much more convincing," he replies, "if you weren't smiling quite so widely."

I stick my tongue out at him and splash him with water. "My hair's going to frizz terribly, and it's all going to be your fault."

"My fault?" he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. "How is it MY fault?"

"You brat! Get back here and apologize!" I yell at Jordan, hiking my maroon skirts above my knees and running toward him, fully intent on clobbering him. He's too fast for me, though, even when I'm not dripping wet and in velvet skirts.

Eventually, I chase him around a tree and he comes up behind me and grabs my arms gently, pulling me back around. We're both laughing as he teases me, swinging my small body around with strong arms. Finally, I'm out of breath, managing to laugh out, "Okay! I give up! Put me down!"

He sets me down gently. "Ha! I win!"

I stick my tongue out at him. "I can still beat you up any day of the week. That I'm not wet and in heavy skirts, anyway." I reach a hand up to my hair and sigh. "You messed up my hair again!"

He shrugs. "I kind of like it, honestly. The curly with the frizzy."

I look at him, unamused. "Seriously? I have hip-length jet black hair. That doesn't look good when it's all frizzy!" I'm not that annoyed, but it's still obnoxious. I spent a while making it straight and looking nice, then Jordan goes and throws me in a river and makes me lose all the work I did on my hair.

He seems to think I'm angry, though, and wilts just slightly. His eyes turn apologetic. "Sorry, Neiva. I wasn't trying to make you mad."

I sigh. "You big dolt." With another laugh, I give him a hug. "I'm not mad."

He laughs back, crushing me in his much stronger arms. "Well, good. Because the only cure for being mad is being dunked in a river."

I pull around from him and giggle, running my hand through my hair. "Don't think you're exempt from this, Jordan. I will find a way to dunk you one day."

"You say that every time I dunk you..." Jordan says, smiling cheekily.

"You-!" I charge at him again, chasing him back into the clearing with the river. Before I even have a chance to react, he flings me back into the river. I swim back up to the surface with strong arms accustomed to swimming by now and glare at him. "What is wrong with you, Jordan?"

He's in spasms of laughter, collapsed on the river bank. Between giggles, he manages to choke out, "I... I think... you need... to lighten up... Neiva."

I manage to tread water with my arms crossed and look up at him, totally ignoring Alora laughing herself silly in the water next to me. The sight of Jordan laughing so heartily makes me smile beside myself. "I hate you, Jordan. I hate you."

"Again... you're... you're smiling!"

Finally, I pull myself out of the water and stand behind him, hanging my head over his. "What am I going to do with you?"

He grins, fully recovered from his laughing spasm. "I think the question is, what am I going to do with you?"

I shrug, eyebrow cocked skeptically. "Really? And what's the answer?"

He grins. "This." He pulls my hands forward, pushing me off balance and sending me stumbling back into the water. Fortunately, this time I keep a good grip on his hands and pull him in behind me. I hear a strangled yelp that's cut off by spluttering as Jordan gets a lungful of water.

I surface, almost having to pull Jordan, with his paltry swimming skills, up with me. "Ha!" I yell. "I got you that time!"

Alora laughs. "Ooh, Jordan! Now you have to come up with something else to get her back with, or she wins!"

He splutters. "Fine..." he concedes. Then he grins impishly. "I still got you three times in a ROW."

I shake my head and stick my tongue out. "Really? You're going to be like that?"

"Oh, you'd better believe I'm gonna be like that," he shoots back good-naturedly. "I live to make Neiva annoyed."

"I could believe it," I mutter with a smile.

He grins and splashes me.

"Leave it to me to ruin the fun," Alora pipes up, "but I think we've got trouble coming." She points up to the tall grassy hill, where I can see a small figure, sillhouetted against the sun, coming toward us. All three of us look toward each other, all of us thinking the same thing. _Crap. We're getting into so much trouble for this._


	2. Chapter 2

Alora's thinking about something. I know she is. And I also know it isn't "following the rules," which is what we're supposed to be thinking about. Slowly, she leans over to me, then whispers, "Totally worth it."

I roll my eyes. My hair's back in a neat braid, though it's still awful. Alora, Jordan, and I are sitting in a triangular shape, facing toward the center of the imaginary triangle our bodies are making. We're supposed to be thinking about how to be proper young people, not going swimming in creeks, not chasing after each other in forests, apparently not doing anything fun. Even after a half-hour lecture about it, however, none of us are thinking about that, and we all know it. Jordan grins. "I agree," he says under his breath.

I sigh. "Guys, we still have 40 minutes to sit and think."

"So?" whispers Alora. "We all know we're just thinking about how much _fun_ that was."

"It's true," Jordan agrees. "Why do they make us do this?"

"So we don't want to do it again, due to having to sit in one place for an hour." I wink at Alora. "This must be torture for you."

She groans over-dramatically, though still quietly. "I know." She drags out the word, making it annoyingly long. "I'm already about to die, and we aren't even halfway done!"

"Well," Jordan replies, "what are you going to do about it? We have about 38 minutes."

She shrugs, an impish smile appearing on her face. "The same thing we do every time we get in trouble."

I groan. "Not again... Alora, come on..."

She giggles. "Truth or dare! Keep track of your dares, and you have a day to do them after we're finished here. You can only do three truths or three dares in a row, then you have to do one of the other. Three chickens apiece. If you get caught, it's your own dang fault and you get in trouble alone. No plainly illegal dares-"

"And no romantic dares!" I glare at Alora, who giggles at me. Just a few weeks ago, Alora had waited until I was out of chickens and called a dare, and dared me to kiss my longtime crush. My cheeks feel hot just with the memory. I still haven't entirely forgiven her.

"Yep!" Jordan seems happy with this, though I'm still not ecstatic.

"My turn first!" Alora says, her voice still low. "Jordan, truth or dare?"

He shrugs a bit, light green eyes uncaring. "Truth."

Alora shakes back her flaming red hair gleefully and asks, "Who's your favorite king?"

He rolls his eyes. "Alora, there's like a million of them."

"I know! It's still a fair question!"

He shakes his head good-naturedly, dark brown hair falling into his eyes. "Bartimaeus," he answers, obviously picking a name out of thin air.

Alora pouts. "That's not even nice. He was the meanest of them all. It's pretty obvious you didn't even try..."

"Maybe I like him anyway." Jordan smiles. "I answered. Now shush." Turning to me, he asks, "Truth or dare?"

I consider for a second. "Truth." Usualy truths are safer than dares in this game. They might be embarrassing, but they'll rarely get you in trouble.

"If you were a witch, what would your witch name be?" It's a common question- as outcasts from society, witches generally have more sharp names, where common people's are far more silky. Children will find a witch name and use it when they want a pseudonym. It's fun and harmless, as witches are extremely, extremely rare now.

I don't even have to consider. My witch name's been set for a while. "Gothel," I reply.

"Ooh, I like that one," Alora replies. "It sounds like a snake name."

I laugh quietly. "And then everyone would have to call me 'Mother,' including people who are older than me! Can you imagine," I continue, trying to mute my laughter, "some old lady coming up to me and calling me 'Mother Gothel'?"

We all burst into contained laughter at this, shoulders only shaking slightly. After not very long, you learn how to get past the watch of the older people who are in charge of punishments. We're forced to stop the game for a good five minutes, before we can start again, hushed tones making sure none of the guardians can hear us. Usually they're engrossed in a book or something, so it isn't hard. Finally, I'm able to ask Alora, "Truth or dare?"

She immediately replies, "Dare!" I exchange a knowing glance with Jordan. Alora's always doing dares, unafraid to do just about anything, especially if someone challenges her to do it.

"Okay..." I reply. "I dare you to ask Minten about when he was a kid."

She groans. "You just gave me a punishment worse than this one..."

I giggle slightly. "That was the point. It's your turn, Alora."

"Jordan, truth or dare?"

"Truth," he replies characteristically.

"Hmmm." Alora's bright blue eyes take on a thoughtful look. "Drawing or writing?"

"Drawing, of course! That was kind of a stupid question, Alora."

Immediately, Alora gets defensive. "Hey! How am I supposed to know that?"

Jordan rolls his eyes. "Well, first of all, you've known me for at least 10 years. Ever since I was like 6. Second of all, have you ever _seen_ me writing? Rhetorical question," he continues as Alora opens her mouth to respond. "No. Because I don't write, I draw."

Alora pouts. "Fine. I'll sit here alone with my little stupid question and cry."

That sends me into paroxysms of giggles, and we're forced to abandoned the game we're playing again, again for another five minutes.

Alora sticks her tongue out at me. People tend to call her "a single ray of sunlight," a beautiful, shining point of light into everyone's lives. I agree, though she, in turn, calls me "a single wave on the shore," due to my light blue-green eyes and black hair. Whenever the sunlight reflects off her copper hair, Alora even looks her nickname, being exactly like sunrise's first ray of sun. She knows it, too, and has used her beauty to get many a guardian off our back just by looking cute.

Finally, we're able to resume our game, Jordan asking me, "Okay, Neiva, truth or dare?"

"Truth, of course."

"If you could go anywhere in Corona, where would it be?"

I consider all the various places. We have a perfect village here, grassy clearings, creeks, caves, and forests all within a few miles of each other, but I know Jordan's thinking more large-scale. "I've always wanted to go to the castle."

Alora scoffs. "Everyone wants to go to the castle."

I glare at her. "Well, a girl can dream."

She giggles quietly. "Whatever floats your boat, sea wave."

I stick my tongue out at her. "Truth or dare?"

"Da-" she stops abruptly, noticing me and Jordan's scheming looks, and switches. "Truth, actually."

"Who's your favorite person in the village?"

Alora smirks. "Cinta."

I roll my eyes. Cinta's our baker, a jolly, fun man, and I love him too, but that wasn't what I meant, and she knows it. I have to word things carefully, making it not technically even a question about who she's crushing on. "Favorite teenage person, silly."

"You." At the sight of my entirely unamused face, Alora bursts into laughter and we're forced to stop our game again, this time for eight minutes.  
>"Okay, you win this one," I relent slightly. "But one day..."<p>

Alora giggles, distinctively maniac, and continues, "Okay, Jordan. Truth or-" she cuts off her sentence abruptly at the guardian wanders over to us.

"Are you ready to be productive, developed, properly adjusted young members of our village?" asks the guardian, looking into each of our eyes.

All three of us nod solemnly. She nods back, then replies, "Then so long, children. I will see you later." I start to walk off, then she says, "Oh, and, Neiva?"

I stop and turn back to her, as does Jordan. "Yes ma'am?"

The older woman winks. "Alora's boy that you've been trying so hard to find? It's Bulnar."

Jordan and I look to each other, stunned. Not only did our guardian hear our game of truth and dare, she didn't stop it AND she helped us? I suddenly grin at Jordan and mouth, _Score._

**_A/N_**

_**So, yes, it's Gothel. I'm so very happy people are actually reading this. Also, I'm taking the approach that Corona's in an alternate universe/world/timestream/whatever, so I'm not working on making it time-perfect. Just writing. Hope you enjoy!**_


	3. Chapter 3

"Neiva!" Alora's face is set in a highly exaggerated scowl. "You promised you'd take me to the flower field!"

I sigh. "I want to go myself, Alora." I look over from straightening my hair to shake my head. "You're 15. You can go to the flower field any time you want."

She just pouts. "But I don't want to go by myself! I wanna go with you!"

"Just this once," I bargain. "I'll take you with me next time. I promise."

"You promised that last time," Alora says, distinctly disappointed. She isn't exaggerating this time, and her eyes are sad.

I give her a quick peck on the cheek. "Come on, sis. Tell you what, give me today in the flower field, then I'll come hang out with you all day tomorrow. Sound good?"

Her eyes light up, the disappointment of a few seconds ago forgotten. "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it! What are big sisters for?"

She grins. "Okay. Tomorrow, then."

"Great." I smile back. "Thanks, Alora." My hair now entirely straightened, I bend to pick up my bag, hoping she won't notice the extra weight in it, making it heavier and more bulgy from usual. Awkward questions would be difficult to answer right now.

Thankfully, she doesn't see it, and I'm able to slip out of "our" house to go to the flower field.

It's not really our house, honestly. With our sad lack of guardianship, my mother's house, built entirely by her, was unofficially passed on to me. At the time, I had been 12, not nearly old enough to actually take care of a family, but I had also been stubborn and managed to take care of both Alora and myself fairly well, and legally, until I was able to get a steady job a few months later. It wasn't ever my first decision, but we got by.

Finally, I get to the flower field. It's beautiful, bright, colorful flowers stretching out as far as the eye can see, right up to a flowing lake near one end, where the creek empties out. There's so many colors, and it's just about picture-perfect. I love it and can never get enough of it, sometimes even ditching our little day school just to sit here.

With a happy sigh, I set my bag down at my feet and pull out my wonderful art kit. My secret.

I draw and paint on a regular basis. I don't tell people very often, preferring just to keep it between me and my drawings. Usually I burn them after I'm done. Nobody really wants to see them anyway; I'm not all that good, and many people think drawing and painting a huge waste of time. Some people can do it. Jordan, for example, can get away with it because his dad's a farmer and it's obvious that they do a lot for the village. But little old me, with no parents to speak of and a job collecting nuts and berries, will probably get the short end of the stick if I try to let people know about my favorite hobby. It takes some effort, but I can keep it, even from Alora, pretty easily.

I set up a small easel from my bag and roll out a piece of paper, cutting off a decent-sized piece. Paper's pretty expensive, and it's hard to buy as much paper as I do without standing out, but I manage by keeping the man I buy it from on my good side with meals and specials. I'm not a bad cook, as Mom taught me the basics, but it's still a chore. Maybe there's more truth than I want to admit to the idea that says that drawing and painting is a waste of time.

As I lay my jars of paints, makeshift brushes made from splintered sticks, and stubs of pencils out in front of me, I note that I need more yellow. I make all my own paints from berries and roots, having learned after much begging and favors given to Jordan. He had a field day with it, too, knowing he knew something I didn't and wanted to know. Jordan learned from his mother, who learned from another woman in the village, and so on. Being a boy, Jordan wasn't even supposed to have learned, but his pleading is hard to ignore; I know that well enough.

Finally, I pull the last thing out of my bag. I only keep one picture every month, the picture I paint of my mother. When she died, I realized that, with only about 9 years of memories of her, I would forget her if I didn't keep her image fresh in my mind. So I started painting her. The first painting I painted of her I spent months on, making sure every tiny detail of everything was perfect. Ever since then, I've painted one a month, sometimes looking at my previous picture to remember her if I need to, then spend the rest of the day thinking about her, recalling my memories. Like with all my paintings, I burn the old portrait when the new one's done. As long as I have one picture of her, I'm satisfied.

I start to draw my mom out, broad strokes across a large ball gown skirt I'm drawing her in, short strokes across her petite figure, gentle curves around her face. I work diligently on her face, marking out sparkling eyes, a small, slightly pointed nose, perpetually smiling lips, and high, thin eyebrows. Her arms, thin and graceful, dancers' arms, are placed perfectly but randomly, thrown out around her carelessly but with a dancer's elegance. Mom was a dancer, even if she never admitted it; anyone could tell you that. The curves I pull into the ball gown come easily, even though I've never actually seen one in person. I draw her as if dancing, spinning across the dance floor gracefully, skirt swirling around her legs, eyes laughing at something just outside of the paper. It isn't hard, as I can still picture my mother almost any time, doing anything, because of all the practice I've had drawing her.

When I'm satisfied with the drawing, I put down my pencils and grab the paint jars. With quick, memorized strokes, I paint out her shining copper hair, hair she passed on to Alora. I place a tiara on her head, painting her almost as a princess in the castle, beautiful, smiling, not a care in the world. I also paint in her blue-green eyes, eyes I inherited, keeping them twinkling and bright. With just the slightest hesitation, I decide to make her dress teal. Everyone liked that color on her, though she never really loved it. I mix the color and start to paint diligently.

I'm halfway through painting the dress, paying attention to how it falls around her figure, how her movement would've affected the fabric, when I'm startled by strong hands around my waist, leaving my hands free but my body pinned. I shriek and drop the pot of teal paint I'm holding, coating my hands in light teal paint, vaguely hearing the clay smash against the ground. Suddenly angry and scared, I push away my attacker and step away from the easel, coming nose-to-nose with Jordan.

We're both utterly shocked for a second. Finally, he breaks the silence. "Well. Hi, Neiva."

I can't think of anything to say. After a long pause, I breathe, "Don't tell anyone."

He shrugs. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't."

My breath catches. "Jordan, this is not something you can play with me on. Please don't."

"Well," he replies with a grin, "then maybe you shouldn't have been doing something secret."

I could scream. "I swear, Jordan. You tell anyone, and I will go to your house while you're sleeping and pour lemon juice on your eyes." I'm dead serious. This is my secret, and I'm not letting some stupid 16-year-old boy ruin it for me.

He winces. "Ow. Bad mental image." With a sharp breath, he screws up his face. "Ouch."

"My point exactly." I shake my head. "Why are you stalking me anyway? Creep."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Alora wouldn't stop whining about how she wanted you to take her to the flower field. It only took a question or two to learn that you'd left her in the village to go yourself." He shrugs, a characteristic twinkle in his eyes. "So, I figured I'd come see what you were up to."

"Well, that was wildly stupid. I'm obviously doing something alone." To be honest, I'm mad at Jordan for finding just about my only secret. Nobody goes to the flower field anymore except us three, and Alora usually keeps Jordan plenty busy.

"Exactly. Painting something." He tries to peer around me. "Lemme see."

I back up, far enough that I'm covering the painting, but not so far I'm touching it. The paints are still wet, and with the money it's going to take to replace the pot I dropped, I can't re-do the picture. "No! It's mine. You aren't even supposed to be here."

"But I'm here now." He smiles cheekily. "I could always tell my father."

"Again," I remind him. "Lemon juice. Eyes. I'd suggest you don't, mainly for your own safety."

He looks over me sarcastically. "My_ safety_? Neiva, you weigh all of 110 pounds sopping wet."

"Maybe, but I'm mean." I know this isn't going to work, so I resort to my last-ditch effort. "Please, Jordan. I can't stop painting. I'll do just about anything for you, but don't tell anyone. You have the opportunity to paint without anyone caring. I don't. My paintings aren't very good, and I have nobody to back me up on them. Painting is a waste of time, as every villager says." I hate begging, but I need him to leave me alone. "Just leave. Forget you ever saw me painting."

He shakes his head. "No can do. Let me see! Please?" After my glare doesn't change, he adds, "I can help you."

I hesitate. I want to show him, I really do. But I know he'll just run off and tell his father. Then where will I be? They'll take my art supplies, and it'll be years until I have enough money to buy them back- more than long enough to forget how to draw Mom. So I bargain. "If I show you my picture," I begin, "you promise never to tell any of the adults what I'm doing. Deal?"

He smirks. "All right. You got yourself a deal." We shake hands, and I unwillingly step aside to give him a clear view of the picture I've been working on.  
>He blinks once, surprised, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, did you say you weren't very good?"<p>

"Yeah," I mumble, bending to pick up the shards of the pot I dropped. I'm still mad at him, but I want him to like my painting. There's not really any chance though. Jordan can actually paint. I can't. "You're better than I'll ever be."

"Neiva, this is amazing!" He pulls me up by my hands, ignoring the thick, quickly drying paint coat, making me drop the sharp pieces of clay in the process. "I've seen you draw before, but mainly just doodles. This is..." he pauses, apparently searching for the right word. "This is fantastic."

I'm shocked. "Uh... what?"

"You could become a painter if you wanted." I give him a sarcastic glare and he shakes his head. "I'm not joking. This is so good. And all without training or anything," he mumbles almost to himself. "You have more natural talent than I do." He pauses, as if suddenly realizing something, then lets go of my hands. "Do you have more? You have to have more paintings."

I grit my teeth, annoyed. He shouldn't care. "I burned them."

"You _WHAT_?" He looks horrified. "Burned paintings? Of any kind? Why? If they're anything like this one, too, they should be kept!"

Finally, my anger runs over. I slap him harshly, leaving a red handprint and teal paint on his cheek. "I never asked for your opinion!" I yell. "You don't have the same life I do; you have the freedom to paint at your own house, with paper and brushes your parents buy you, working on pictures you're going to end up keeping, looking at for months." I snarl. "I don't have that luxury, Jordan. I have to look like an adult, act like an adult, while still being a kid, provide for my sister and I while also trying to use extra money for my painting. I don't have my parents. I don't get what you get. And I don't care!"

Jordan's eyes look sad and scared for a second, like they do whenever he's in trouble, then they change to understanding. When his mouth opens, he says just about the last words I was expecting to hear. "You miss your mom, don't you, Neiva?"

I grit my teeth to keep a sob out of my voice. "Why do you care?"

"Because I'm all but your big brother," he replies. "Because I care about you, even when you're being stubborn-headed."

I cross my arms and shake my head, but a tear trails down my cheek even as much as I try to keep it back.

Jordan holds his arms out, exactly like he used to do in the days just after Mom died, and I find myself muffling my sobs into his shoulder, his arms holding me strongly. We've done this so often, I'm not even ashamed of crying in front of him, showing how weak I really am when everyone's not looking. I forgot how comforting he was, how comforting he's always been, willing to make you feel better with anything he can give. He's always helping someone. I'm just glad he'll also help me.

Finally, after a few minutes, I pull back away from him, wiping away tears with the heel of my hand. "Thanks, Jordan," I whisper. "Even if we really aren't related... you're welcome to be my big brother any day."

He smiles, a twinkle escaping into his eyes. "As long as I'm avoiding lemon juice in my eyes, I'm more than happy to."

I laugh. "Hold up your end of the bargain, and I won't have to."

With a smirk, he replies, "All right then." He sits down against a tree and motions to my painting. "You gonna finish that?"

I look down at the puddle of teal paint at my feet. "Well, _somebody_ made me spill all the teal I was going to use."

He shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. "Blend it to green or blue. I want to see what you can do."

"Fine." I roll my eyes. Blue did always set off Mom's hair pretty well.

With a deft hand, I swirl my dark sapphire-blue paint into the teal color already drying on the canvas. Thankfully it's wet enough to allow for easy blending. I use my brush to blend it so it appears almost pearlescent, soft spots of teal shining through the dark blue I've chosen as the new color.

"What in Corona are you using as a brush?" Jordan finally asks.

"It's a splintered branch. Brushes are way too expensive."

Jordan falls silent, and I move on to the background of the painting.

This is my favorite part. Some days I use the flower field as my background, but I feel like this needs something more regal, more formal. I brush out a dark midnight-black sky, twinklings of white stars, luminescent moon shining down on a grassy field, dark save the moonlight.

"I'm done," I finish, bending down to start putting away my pots.

Jordan moves to inspect my painting. He smiles. "Neiva, this is still amazing. Maybe even more, now that you changed the color of her dress." There's a slight pause. "Who's she smiling at?"

I shrug. "I dunno. Maybe a child. Me or Alora. Maybe my father. Maybe Alora's father."

"Does it ever bug you that you and Alora don't have the same dad?" Jordan's still looking over the painting, but doesn't seem to feel the need to always stay there as far as questions go.

I shake my head. "We were raised as sisters. So we're sisters. Half-sister doesn't mean anything."

"Does it bother you that neither of you even know who your dad is?"

Sighing, I reply, "I suppose, sometimes. I wish Mom would've left us something. But I've never had a dad, so I really don't notice."

"What about-"

Jordan's about to ask another question when he's cut off by a sound. I quiet, cocking my head to hear better. Suddenly, it comes again. Jordan and I stare at each other, shocked.

Then I take off running, leaving all my painting supplies, my paintings, everything. I can hear Jordan yell after me, but I don't stop.

Because when my little sister screams, I find her.

**_A/N: _****Two chapters in a day! That's a record. :P**

**I don't really have a schedule right now. I'll try to keep them coming on a fairly regular basis, but no guarantees. I hope y'all like what you see, and that it makes sense. I will read every review and, as an added bonus, look through your stories if you review mine. I'll read anything I like, and review it. (Future Fantasy Writer, I'm looking at you. :) ) **


	4. Chapter 4

Unheeding of whatever else is going on around me, I tear through the forest, running full-tilt toward the city. I need to get to Alora. I need to find her, to help her with whatever she needs help with. My sister is the most important thing I've ever had in my life. She's not getting away from me, and I'm not letting her stay in danger. That scream was pure, unadulterated fear. It scares me to death.

Finally, finally I get to our house. It's built on the outskirts of the city, but it's still more than close enough that someone should've heard Alora. Someone should be here, helping her, even just seeing what's going on. Right?

Wrong.

There's nobody.

I always knew nobody in our town liked us, but I'd never thought they'd go this far, ignore my sister's screams because of who we are. It's not our fault Mom wasn't exactly an exemplary, entirely clean person. It isn't my fault we're both illegitimate children. The thing is, because Mom's gone, the people in the town have nobody to blame for it. So they blame us, turning their backs on us entirely.

I just didn't know "entirely" applied to this, too.

The wooden door, one that's so annoyingly flimsy, has been knocked down, and the one window is broken. Obviously, something's wrong. Dead wrong.

Alora screams that blood-curling scream again, and my heart leaps into my throat. I dash into the house, throwing caution to the wind, just trying to reach my sister. I can hear Jordan's steps just behind me, following me in.

We both stop, Jordan a foot in front of me, staring at the sight we're met with. My brain won't even fully comprehend it.

There's a tall man, standing just in front of Alora, pushing her up against the wall, his left hand choking her and a spear held tightly in his right hand, pushed firmly to her throat. Immediately, they both look to us. I lock eyes with Alora, inwardly screaming but outwardly shocked beyond words. Her bright blue eyes are scared and full of pain in a way I've never seen them before in my life. They're usually so happy, but right now they're just terrified.

After about a half-second, the man snarls and pushes his spear forward, and I have to watch as the sharp point pierces her throat, crimson blood bubbling out of her neck as she lets out a muffled scream. The man pulls the spear away and whirls to face us, and Alora crumples, curling up in a protective ball on the floor. She's whimpering quietly, but I can't even comprehend it. That's my sister.

_That's my baby sister dying on the floor._

Finally, my brain snaps back into gear. "_Alora!_!" I scream, trying to move forward to get to her, to help her, so she doesn't die somehow. I don't even know what I'm going to do. I just need to save my baby sister.

Jordan holds me back, grabbing my arm and pulling me back behind him. "Neiva, stay _back_!" Usually, Jordan doesn't yell, and it scares me enough to paralyze me again.

In return, the man throws his spear straight at him, impaling him directly in his chest, going right through his heart and coming a good foot out of his back. Quietly, he gasps, bringing his fingers to his chest. He pushes on the staff hilt, and his face blanches, turning white as a sheet, as the front of his shirt turns dark red, blood pooling out over his clothes. He lets go of my arm and stumbles away from me. Then he falls, and somehow I know he's dead before he even hits the ground.

I'm paralyzed. Not Jordan, too. Please, no. Not both of them. I love them both. They're the _only_ ones I love. I can't have them die. It hurts too much; the feeling's more than overwhelming.

I look up to the man, who doesn't even look fazed. He uses his right forearm to push me against the wall, reaching back into his belt and pulling out a long knife that he lays across my neck, pushing it into my skin. He pauses for a second, just looking into my eyes. "Kill me," I hiss. "You've already done it, for all intents and purposes. Alora and Jordan _were_ my life. I have nothing left to live for. Just kill me."

He's about to, but then another man comes out of my room and holds up a small bag. "Jeffrey, we've got everything. You know how little these kinds of houses end up with. A couple pieces of jewelry and some money."

Robbers?

Wait, really?

I can feel the absolute and utter shock register in my eyes as I look, disgusted, at the man holding me against the wall.

These men killed my sister and my best friend because they wanted money. They took my mother's jewelry and everything I've saved up to keep Alora and I alive. All of which, together, is worth ever so slightly more than _nothing_.

Definitely not worth more than two lives.

"Jeffrey. There are people coming. Let's go."

The man holding me rolls his eyes and drops me, jumping deftly out of the broken window after the other one. They leave me there, though, not even injured. Not dead like I was sure I was going to be.

I stumble over to where Alora is lying. "Alora, no. No, no, no... please, no." I pull her into my lap and hold her tightly as tears start to fall from my eyes. "Wake up. Please. Don't just leave me here."

She stirs, just slightly, and my breath catches. "Neiva," she whispers, her voice bubbling through the blood still running from her throat, "you're still here?"

"Yeah, Alora," I say, desperately trying to keep sobs out of my voice. "Of course I'm here. Why would I leave?"

"Oh..." she sluggishly nestles closer to me, dripping dark, slimy blood all across my already red dress, and starts absent-mindedly stroking my hair. "Can you sing me a song, then? I'm sleepy..."

I want to scream at her not to leave me, to stay here, to fight against it, but I can't. I can't do it. She's going to die, I know she is and I might as well make it as easy as possible for her. "Sure, Alora."

"The normal one?"

"Yeah," I reply, choking back my tears. We learned this song from Mom, someone who many people called a witch. I kind of believe it, too, not that I really care. She's my mother; she could be pretty much anything and I'd be okay with it. She had always said that it was an old magic song, meant for a drop of sunlight. Alora and I pretty much always thought she meant Alora. After all, that's just about what we called her. A single ray of sunshine. So, after Mom died, we started to sing it. I sing it to her all the time, when she's going to bed.

Now that she's going to bed for the last time, I might as well again.

Keeping my voice as steady as possible, I sing softly, "Flower, gleam and glow... let your power shine... make the clock reverse... bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt... change the fates' design... save what has been lost... bring back what once was mine... what once was mine."

I start to sob, but I keep singing. _Heal what has been hurt_? Really? This song is so hard to sing right now. I can't stop, though. Alora needs me to keep going.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her hand stops stroking my hair. Eventually, it falls limp, and I can feel her fall away from me. I stop even trying to sing and hug her to me tightly, letting myself sob into her silky tresses. "Alora..."

I can hear someone walking just outside the house. "We heard Jordan yell. Is everything-" suddenly, he stops, shocked. Obviously, he's walked in. "What's _happened_?"

I just keep rocking back and forth on my knees, Alora's body clasped tightly to mine. My cries are almost hysterical at this point, even as much as I try to control them. My baby sister is dead. My best friend is gone. They've both been erased from my life, in a cruel and unnecessary manner.

My whole reason for living, the one reason I've been able to support myself since Mom died back when I was twelve, is gone.

The man- I want to say he does something important for the town, but I can't remember right now- walks toward me. I can hear his footsteps on the wooden floor. "Did you hear me, girl? I asked you a _question_. _What happened?_" He reaches out and pulls on my shoulder, but I jerk away from him. I don't want this man touching me. He wouldn't come when my sister screamed. He's responsible, at least partially.

"Don't touch me!" I shriek. "I swear, if you touch me one more time, I will hurt you."

"What's wrong?"

"What's... wrong?" I laugh bitterly, madly, more than overwhelmed from the events of the last three minutes. "Oh, nothing much. I mean, my baby sister and my best friend are dead. They were killed in front of me. Nothing at all. Oh, no. I'm fine. Utterly, entirely fine."

"Jordan is... dead?"

"No, he's taking a _nap_." I snarl. "Of course he's dead, you idiot."

"You little brat." The man doesn't touch me, though, which means that I must have scared him. I don't mind. "Illegitimate daughter of a witch, trouble of our city, terrible, inconsiderate child. Why didn't you protect him?"

"Who, Jordan?" I find myself growing furious with this man. Illegitimate daughter of a witch? It's true, of course. But that doesn't mean it hurts less. "Oh, excuse me, I forgot. I'm supposed to somehow defend people twice my size even when they're trying to defend me."

"He tried to defend _you_?" The man laughs. "Why would anyone want to defend you? You don't deserve it."

"Why, because of my mother?"

"Yes." He moves closer. "Your mother was a terrible person, too. Honestly, you should be dead right now, or never have existed. If we'd have killed her like the mayor had wanted to all those years ago, when she found out she had conceived a child, this would never have happened."

I shake my head and hold Alora even closer. No. Please, I can't do this. Leave me alone. Go away. I need to stay with Alora, I need to be a kid, I need to have time to just sit here.

He scoffs. "Fine. I'm taking the body of the girl, though."

"No."

"Yes. I'm bigger than you."

"You take her, and I will kill you." I'm dead serious. I refuse to let Alora's body out of my arms, refuse to entrust it to these people who didn't care enough to come see what was wrong. Who only wanted to help when they heard that Jordan was in danger.

"An extreme threat, coming from a girl child." He laughs and starts as if to touch my shoulder.

"I mean it. You touch me, and I'm going to kill you." Now that I'm done being overwhelmed, I have this sense of coldness. I would kill this man in a second.

He just laughs, though, and I steel myself to attack him.

Then another voice, a far more melodious voice, comes from the doorway. It's filled with sorrow, but also understanding. "Jasper, don't touch the girl. Leave her alone."

_**A/N**_

**_Guys, _**_**I am SO SORRY it's been so long. I hope you forgive me! Also, I hope you like it. It's sad and terribly depressing. Which, I suppose, was why I kind of liked writing it. I love it, because it really IS a good chunk of why Gothel is Gothel. There's at least... two, possibly three foreshadowings. SO! **_


	5. Chapter 5

I stay where I'm sitting, but I keep my ears open. "Look," Jasper replies, "I need to take the girl's body so we can bury it. Give her a proper burial."

"And I say no," I reply. I'm calm on the outside, but inside I'm raging. I'm so angry about this. I'm angry that Alora's gone, I'm angry that Jordan's gone, I'm angry that Jasper feels like he can just come in and do whatever he wants. That's not how I do things. And when you try to mess with how I do things, you're in for a surprise. If I've learned one thing from being on my own for all these years, it's how to be determined. "Again, if you touch me or her, I will kill you. Don't think I'm going to do anything else, because I refuse to let you get your nasty hands on my beautiful sister."

He snarls. "You're one to talk. With your heritage, do you really think that you deserve to be allowed any of this anyway? Maybe we should just forcibly take the dead one. You obviously couldn't protect her."

And that's when the self-doubt starts to come in, faster and faster, overwhelming my brain with all the thoughts and self-hatred running through.

_You obviously couldn't protect her._

_You couldn't._

_Your sister died in front of your eyes._

_You were unable to stop them from killing Jordan._

_You couldn't protect him, either._

_Your best friend was killed protecting you._

_You don't deserve any of this._

_You're worthless._

I shudder and press my cheek to Alora's cool skin, wet tears dripping onto her pretty face. I know it was my fault. I just can't accept it. Because accepting it means realizing that I could've helped my sister. That, had I done things correctly, Alora would be here. If I'd let her come along with me to the flower field. If I'd had her go do something while I was gone. If I'd made Jordan occupy her somewhere. If I'd waited to paint for some other day.

But I didn't. And now they're both dead.

"I stand with Neiva on this one," the woman snaps. "Leave. None of your loved ones are here. You are not needed."

_Yours is. Your Alora is here because you can't take care of your family._

"But, Alia-"

"I said, leave."

Alia. Where have I heard that name? Shutting my eyes, I think for a moment. Alia... Alia...

"Fine, fine," Jasper replies, a snarl in his voice. His voice softens ever so slightly. "Take Jordan back, then, when you come back, okay? He's yours anyway."

Suddenly, my eyes snap open. Alia Kilst.

Alia walks forward to Jordan and kneels over him, gathering him up into her arms, starting to sob.

Jordan's mother.

I place Alora down gently onto the cold packed-dirt floor and walk over to Alia, deftly snapping the spear sticking through Jordan's chest and tugging it out, not even noticing the blood now even more thoroughly staining my skirts. Brushing back his dark brown hair, I look up to his mother. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," she replies graciously.

"But it was..."

_Why didn't you do something other than just stand there?_

I'm really starting to blame myself for all this now. It hurts. "He was protecting me from the robbers. So they killed him."

Sadly, Alia laughs. "It's not your fault, then. Jordan was protecting you of his own free will. He wanted to keep you safe. So he chose to get hurt himself rather than let you get hurt."

"I could've saved him." I lower my head, ashamed. Idly, I notice that about the bottom half of my hair is utterly soaked in thick blood. It's sticky, and it smells oddly metallic. I hate it. But I suppose it fits me. It's all that does.

_You could've saved them._

"There's something I could've done. There's always something I could've done."

She looks up at me. "Neiva, I know it hurts. I know you hurt. But don't blame yourself. Please."

I shudder and, suddenly, all the sights and sounds start to affect me. The room starts to spin, and I blanch, starting away from Jordan. From Jordan's corpse, covered in thick, sticky, crimson-scarlet blood, devoid of life, missing any spark. I look to Alora, but she's the same way, a desecrated beauty, a tribute to the robbers' utter disrespect for life. For her in general. "I hate them," I say quietly. "I hate them," I say again, louder now. "Those robbers. I hate them with everything I have in me." _All 110 pounds, sopping wet._ The memory of Jordan, not ten minutes ago, saying those words to me, makes me start to shake. "I swear, if it's the last thing I ever do, I will find them. And I will make them pay. This torture I'm feeling will find its way into them, somehow, I swear it."

Alia looks up to me and shakes her head. "No. You can't let that control your life."

"Oh, but I can." I laugh, the harsh sound edged with madness. "I will never let anything else I love away from me again. No matter what happens, my loved ones will stay with me."

_Your loved ones. Like there'll ever be any more of them, now that you've managed to lose the ones you had._

"Neiva, listen-"

"No, you listen." I don't even care anymore. My back's pressed against the wall as I unconsciously try to back away from these bloody corpses as far as possible. "Alora and Jordan were my life. Probably even more than Jordan was your life. Because your son gave me a reason to live." My eyes spark vividly. "The day after my mother died, nobody would talk to me. Nobody would so much as look at me. I shut myself and my sister in our house. But then Jordan came along. He'd always liked playing with Alora and I. And this twelve-year-old boy knocked on our door, carrying a loaf of bread, and asked us to come play." I laugh, a sob somehow making its way into my voice. "He was the only person who saw how scared I was. Who acknowledged that I needed someone to help me. Jordan never took advantage of my vulnerability, never let anyone hurt us, never cared that my mother was a witch, never minded that everyone else hated us."

_He was literally your best and only friend. And you let him die._

Alia looks chastened. "I know. And I only barely let him keep going to see you."

"He lied, half the time." I don't even care that I'm telling her this now. Jordan's dead. It doesn't matter. "When he was telling you he was going to go paint, or go find some herb, or go make bread. Usually he already had a painting, or he knew where that herb grew, or he had dough ready. He generally came over here so he could talk to us, at least once a day. You know Aran hates us."

Wincing, Alia nods. "My husband is of the same mind as most of the other villagers. That you should pay for your mother."

"I loved my mother for who she was." I hiss through my teeth. "I don't care. She was_ my mother_. I couldn't care less."

"She was more than just your mother, though." Alia hesitates. "Your mother was..."

"Just _SAY _it already!" I roll my eyes, clenching my hands into fists at my side. "My mother was a slut and a witch. That enough for you? It's a well-known fact, okay? And _I don't care_." It's really honestly taking a lot of effort not to physically attack this woman. I'm already emotionally worn. This isn't helping. "Look, I knew her for twelve years. Nine of those years I actually remember. And she was a far nicer, far more friendly, far more _loving_ person than any of you ever were."

_She's dead too. Her last request was asking you to take care of Alora. Nice work._

"I know, I know, I know, and it tears me apart." Alia stands up to face me across the room. Her sky-blue dress is soaked with a huge bloodstain across the skirt. "I want to help you. I have for a long time. But Aran won't let me. He's the mayor and all, and he feels like even allowing you to live on the outskirts is too much of a burden on the city."

"Oh, I know." I scoff. "Have you ever _noticed_ how often we get in trouble? We do anything- _anything_- that's even slightly off, and we're immediately given a punishment. It's not fair. But it's what you get when everyone hated your mother, I guess."

"We didn't-"

"Oh, don't even start with me." I move away from the wall a step. If there's anything I absolutely abhor, it's when a villager tries to tell me how I should listen to them, how I should trust them because they didn't hate my mother. Or because they don't _really_ hate me. It's always just crap. "You all hated her. She raised us all away from the town because you wanted to kill her. And, by extension, you wanted to kill us." I laugh. "That's why I wouldn't accept your help through all those years. You realize that. You all hated us, and so I decided to stay out here. Relatively secluded, far enough away that you couldn't hurt us."

_Far enough away that they could make the choice to let Alora die._

"And I'm sorry for that." Alia steps closer to me. "Come back to the town. I can take you in as my child. I can make sure you're safe. We can give Alora a proper burial."

I laugh. "No. I'm sorry, no. You're not going to make sure I'm safe, because I'm leaving. I'm leaving all of you. I want to go find those robbers, and I want to make sure that they know how much they hurt me and my closest friends." I walk the distance between myself and her, looking directly into her bright eyes. "And don't even think you're giving Alora a burial. That's for me to do and me alone."

She sighs. "Fine. I'll take Jordan, then."

Something inside me longs to bury Jordan, too. _My_ best friend. He'd always said that he had never really had any close friends until he met me. That, were things different, he'd seriously consider dating me.

And I shared that thought, too.

The only problem was, his dad hated him even associating with me. We had to be content with just being friends. I was okay with it, but I always did so very much want to be accepted.

If I'd had a different mom... maybe this would be different.

_Maybe Alora would be alive. Maybe Jordan would be alive. Maybe you'd be happy, and not heartbroken._

"Fine," I reply, looking down to the floor. "Take him."

She walks over to Jordan and scoops him up into her arms. Walking slightly awkwardly with his weight in her arms, she slowly makes her way to the door. I follow her out, walking out of the house after her. When she's out, she stops for just a second. "Do you want to say goodbye or anything to Jordan?"

Oh, yes, I do. I want to, so badly. I want to tell him how much I wish he was still here. How much I want him back. I want to say how much I still love him, and how I'll never forget him.

But I can't say all that.

So I just stand in front of Alia and, cradling Jordan's head gently, press a kiss to his forehead. "I love you, Jordan," I whisper, letting a tear drip from my eye. "Even if you can't hear me anymore... I want you to know that I love you."

_And he'll never hear that again, because you let him die._

Alia meets my eyes as I look up again. "I'm sorry," she says. She seems at a loss for words, really.

"I know you are." There's nothing to be said. I'm not sorry for her. Not really. She's one of the ones who let Alora die. So I honestly don't care.

I watch as she takes Jordan with her over to the town. As she takes my best friend back to the one place that could've saved him.

I hope they learn their lesson. I really do. I hope they realize that, had someone come to save Alora, Jordan would be alive too. I hope that Aran's heart breaks. I hope that the entire village feels the same utter misery that's in my heart.

And I hope that they never let it happen again.

_They're not the ones who should've done something. This is all. your. fault._

I go back inside and pull Alora into my arms again. She's so cold, so lifeless. It's hard seeing her like this. Until sundown, I just sit there with her, holding her against her, unwilling to let her go.

However, as the sun goes down, I realize what I have to do.

I stand up, balancing her slight figure insecurely, and get ready at making her ready for her "burial." I wash her neck and chest, gently wiping away the scarlet blood caked onto her skin. I change her clothes, dressing her in the prettiest garments she owns, a light green, barely embroidered long silk dress. It always set off her hair and made her look gorgeous. Lastly, I pull her naturally wavy hair up slightly. She looks beautiful, which is what you're supposed to look like for a burial.

It's so weird, but it's traditional.

Mom always said that it was so that people could remember the dead person at their best. I did it because I know how much Alora liked looking pretty. Tradition's never played a huge part in my life.

_Alora liked looking pretty. Now, the one time where she's truly absolutely gorgeous, she's dead._

Gently, I lay her on the table, arranging her arms and legs so that she looks more natural, and run to go get my things. I don't need a lot. I grab my picture of Mom, some of my pots and paints, a couple coins that I had in my bag, a few changes of clothes, some food, my dagger, and Alora's favorite bracelet. I'm not about to steal anything, but I'm pretty good at convincing. I don't need a lot.

Finally, I'm all ready.

I stand and face Alora. She looks so pretty. So very Alora. As I talk, my voice starts to become choked with tears, but I just talk through them. "Okay, Alora. I'm leaving. There's no reason for me to just stay here. So I'm going. I don't know where I'm going to go, but I need to find the people who did this to you and make them pay for it. I don't know how. But it's going to happen." I sigh. "I love you. I love you, so much. I really hope you're with Mom. I hope you're happy."

My throat closes up, and I step back, putting my head down. I pull out two matches from my back pocket and get ready with them.

This is not how you bury someone. It's how witches bury someone. Witches who don't want the body of someone they love being recovered.

I don't want Alora's body being dug up. I don't want any of the villagers taking her. So I'm going to bury her in the most respectable way I know.

_Well, at least you're doing something right. After betraying her to death._

I light both matches and touch them to tapestries on the wall. They go up in flames, quickly setting the wooden walls on fire, too. I back out of the house as it starts to burn around me, letting the entire structure be engulfed in flames.

Standing in the dim light, watching my house burn to the ground, my sister's corpse somewhere in there too, I come to a painful realization.

Not only am I going to go find the people who did this and make them pay, I'm not going to let this ever happen again. Whether that means keeping robbers and thieves away from my loved ones or that means entirely keeping those I love away from this cruel, stupid world. And I know that Neiva, the girl who likes to smile, who enjoys being with her little sister and her best friend, is dead and gone.

I'm not going to let myself stay as careless and carefree.

_You can't allow yourself to stay careless and carefree. Not after what you did._

No, to survive in this world, I have to be like my mother.

I turn away from the house as it starts to structurally fail and collapse on itself.

I'm not Neiva anymore.

Now I'm Gothel.

I'm a witch.

And I'm going to live it.

_**A/N:  
><strong>_**_SO FREAKING SAD. DX But good. I hope you like. Next chapter is going up on 22-3-12- MY BIRTHDAY! :D_**


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning: Slightly more suggestively mature language in this chapter**

* * *

><p>I walk down the road, dark green cloak pulled down over my eyes securely. It's been a long while, but I have another lead. After six months of hunting and searching, I have another lead on the whereabouts of Jeffrey and Matthew Mitchell, the men that I've been looking for.<p>

The men that killed Alora and Jordan.

This is all that's been keeping me going for the past few months. I've chopped my hair off, cutting it to just above chin-length. I've worked on pitching my voice an octave lower, making it sound less like a young girl and more like a decently aged male. I've ditched my skirts, having made a shirt and pants for myself out of cloth I managed to buy after painting a few pictures and discreetly selling them. I have a wicked-sharp dagger. And, lastly, I have leads.

I look up high enough to see the sign on the door, though I make sure that my very green eyes stay hidden under my cloak. Inwardly, I give a mirthless chuckle.

The Snuggly Duckling_? Interesting name, for something rumored to be the most vicious pub in miles._

Still, though, I suppose you can't judge a book by its cover.

I walk in, instantly hit with the smell every pub is absolutely filled with. It's this terrible stench, like someone took "Essence of Men," alcohol, and moldy food and somehow mixed it all together. And this place is worse than most.

_Ugh, some of these places could use a good scrubbing._

I walk up to the bar and, keeping my voice pitched low, place a coin on the counter. "A drink of your choice. And information."

The bartender, a large man wearing some sort of ridiculous viking getup, laughs loudly. "What's a little boy like you doin' runnin' 'round my pub?" He picks up my coin, placing it into a coin purse around his waist. "And asking fer any drink, yer gonna get killed if I give you somethin' too much fer yer tiny little frame to handle," he slurs. It's clear that just serving the beer here is not the only thing this man does.

I chuckle darkly under my cloak. "Just believe me," I reply. "If you give it to me, I can handle it." In six months of wandering around pubs, I've built up quite the tolerance to alcohol. Nasty stuff it is, but it helps me blend in more than if I just ask for something safer like iced tea or water.

He scowls at me, I can hear it in his voice. "Information, ya said?"

"Yes. I'm looking for two men. Mitchell, their name is. Heard of them?"

There's a long silence, in which the man turns around and mixes up some kind of disgusting concoction, the likes of which I've probably drunk before. He turns around and places it in front of me, and I take a sip, somehow managing not to gag and spit it out. Thankfully, I wouldn't be sick all over the place, as I don't have the money to put food in my stomach. It's made me rail-skinny, which is helpful for disguising the fact that I'm a girl. I guess that's a good thing.

His voice is slightly more respectful after I've downed a couple mouthfuls of the stuff, which I'm glad for. "Well, then, lad. I s'ppose I can help."

I smile wickedly. "I'm glad."

"The Mitchell boys were here 'bout a day ago. Happen ta come through quite often. Maybe... twice a week? Sometimes I get 'em in here four, sometimes five times, if they're havin' a bad week." His slow slur is a little bit difficult to understand, but it's still there. "If ya wanna wait 'round, they'll prob'ly come back around... tomorrow, maybe the day after."

I grin. Absolutely perfect. "Thank you."

"No problem," he replies. "Say, boy. What's a pretty-speakin' sprout like you doin' wantin' anythin' ta do with them Mitchell boys?" He laughs loudly. "Ya wantin' ta hire 'em?"

Inwardly, I laugh. Hire them? Not only do I not have the funds for that, but I would gag every time I saw them and knew that I was giving them the means to keep going. "No," I reply softly. "I have much less grandiose plans in mind for them."

He shrugs. "Well, then. Whatev'r ya wanna do wit' 'em. I mean, they tend to work fer the highest bidder, though..." he drops his voice and leans slightly closer to me, "I've heard it said that they 'ave no probl'ms with doin' some old-fashioned robbery." He straightens back up and returns to his normal voice. "Ya didn't hear it from me, though."

This time, I don't try to keep my laughter back. I let out a few mirthless bubbles of laughter. "No, I didn't. I heard it from a much more reliable source." It's an eyewitness account, actually.

He sounds intrigued. "Ah, well, then. Do what ya want."

I nod, taking another drink of the awful beverage in front of me. "That I will. Don't tell the Mitchells I'm looking for them, though, would you? It's a... surprise."

The man laughs, but he consents, "A'right. Whatev'."

I grin and sip more of the drink in my hands. "Thank you." Another gulp. "What _is_ this?"

He laughs loudly. "All the young boys 'at come in 'ere get the same thing. Though," he said pensively, "yer the only one 'at's been able to keep it down..."

"That doesn't answer my question," I reply, taking another annoyed drink. "What's _in_ it?"

"Pretty much ev'ry alcohol in the place," he replies, laughing still, "with a 'ealthy dose o' sewage in it."

I shrug and take another swig. Honestly, it's not as bad as some of the crap I've had to drink in some places. "I have to say, it's not the best drink I've ever had."

"And 'e's still drinkin' it!" the big man says incredulously. "I've never seen a braver boy in my career runnin' this place."

"Or stupider, I'm never sure myself." I shrug. "It's all about the same. Besides, I paid well for this drink, I may as well finish it. It's not like most alcohol doesn't taste like sewage anyway."

The laugh that comes from the man almost knocks me off my chair, it's so loud. "Well put, boy! So, what're ya hidin' from?"

"Nothing much," I reply. "I don't hide. I simply prefer that my identity not be broadcast to everyone within a fifty-foot radius."

"Oh, really?" he asks, obviously not convinced. "Nah. Why not show us your face," he continues, reaching toward my hood.

I move away smoothly, batting his drunk hand away. "I'd prefer not to," I reply cooly. "If it's all the same to you, I like keeping my identity to me and me only."

"Well, 'at's just no fun, now."

There are more reasons to keep someone away than just keeping your identity to yourself, though. Things like not wanting to get raped in the forest by some drunk freak. Which hasn't quite happened yet, but things got really close there once. And that's when I decided passing myself off as a boy would make things a heck of a lot easier.

That's when the doors open again, and I hear a voice I've been looking for for months. "Barkeep! The usual, if you would!"

The bartender sighs and turns around to get what I can only assume is a normal drink for the Mitchells.

Someone comes and sits right next to me, snarling but obviously in a good mood. "Well, Jeffrey," the bartender says, "'ave a good day?"

"Quite," he replies. "Woulda been better if I could get anything resembling pay. I barely have enough to pay for a drink as it is."

Suddenly, I get the uncanny urge to get some childish payback from him. "Here," I reply. "You can have some of this one, if you really want."

He eyes me suspiciously, but he takes the drink from me. "Really." he states, then takes a gulp. The expression of disgust on his face causes me to cackle with slightly evil laughter, especially after he spits it out on the floor.

I take it back from him and drink some more, looking over at him. "What, you can't handle a drink?"

"What _is_ that?" He scowls at me. "Who are you anyway?"

"Mostly sewage, and that's not important."

He gags and vomits all over the floor, and I watch him with an impassioned, if slightly amused, air. Really, this is a lot more hilarious than it should be. I'm getting way too much amusement out of it, and yet I don't even care. His head comes back up and he looks over at me like I'm a madman. "Why are you drinking it, then?"

I take another sip, relishing the expression of disgust that crosses his face, and nod to the bartender. "He gave it to me."

The big man laughs loudly. "'O course I did. An' 'e 'andled it well, too." He gives the drink in his hands to Jeffrey, who takes it gratefully. "Where's yer brother?"

Jeffrey scowls. "He'll get here soon enough. I let him escape himself."

"What'd ya 'ave today?"

He shrugs. "Killing some woman we were asked to." He smiles, and I don't like the tones behind it. "Though, I'd much rather be allowed to capture her first and do what we want." I barely manage not to kill him right there. He keeps talking, though, and it isn't helping much. "Seems a shame to waste the body she's got."

The bartender laughs. "'m sure ya could find a girl ta fill that fer ya."

"Not for free," he laughs back.

This whole exchange is making more sick than the drink is. And that's saying something. You'd think, after six months of being subjected to this, I'd get over it, but no. This is another reason that I dress like a boy now.

A man I can only assume is Matthew comes and sits next to Jeffrey, laughing. "Ah, the things you realize when you get your hands on someone's map, huh?"

Jeffrey smiles widely. "Oh, yeah. We know where she'll be later."

The bartender nods. "Ya gonna have to leave soon?"

"Couple minutes, really," Matthew shrugs. "We just popped in for a quick drink."

I nod. "Before you leave, I have something to give you."

Jeffrey scowls. "If it's a drink, we're not interested."

I smile widely. "It's not. It's much more interesting, I can promise you that."

He shrugs. "After this drink, then?"

"After this drink."

I spend another ten minutes listening to them talk about various perverse things, mostly how much they apparently want to ravish the next woman who happens to come along, drinking my "drink," which can only be described as such in the loosest sense of the word, and waiting, feeling the sharp steel of my knife under my cloak. I'm so close. Literally a foot away from the person I've been waiting to kill for six months.

And I'm going to do it.

After they're done, they apparently forget that they were supposed to talk to me or leave and order another drink. I don't protest, as the more drunk they are, the easier it'll be for me to kill them.

Finally, after maybe forty minutes, they're both completely hammered, falling all over themselves. "Well," Jeffrey slurs, "we should probably go."

I hold up a finger. "Talk to me first."

"Jusht right here?" Gosh, the slurring is going to get on my nerves.

"No, outside," I reply. "Come."

I step off the stool I was sitting at, and they actually follow me around to the back of the building. "What did you wanna talk about?" Matthew asks, leaning heavily on the wall.

I pull back my hood, revealing my distinctly female face. "Not to talk."

I can see the confusion on their face, and wait for something perverted to come from one of them. Jeffrey finally does it, smiling drunkenly and moving closer to me. "Well, looksh like we won't be needing to capture our target firsht after all, will we?"

I roll my eyes. "You've got the wrong girl, Mitchell."

Matthew moves in, too, eyeing me in a way I'd much prefer to keep to a minimum. "Not much... but you'll do."

I move closer to him suggestively, reaching in my cloak for my knife, running my thumb over it, making sure it's still as sharp as I need it. "Do what?" I ask, dropping my voice to a sultry tone. Ugh, I hate this. It's a pretty easy way to kill these people, though.

He grins, reaching down to touch me, and I decide just to kill him. I bring my arm up, slashing a deep gash across his stomach and chest, then cut his windpipe for good measure so he doesn't scream. He starts to bleed all over me, gasping in pain and surprise. Stumbling away from me, he falls over and starts to bleed on the floor, twitching and gasping for air.

I turn to Jeffrey, who seems frozen in shock. "So," I hiss, "do you remember me? Or do I have to tell you again?" He doesn't answer, so I continue, "Fine. You remember the beautiful girl with the copper hair and bright blue eyes?" I realize with an overwhelmingly sick feeling what he could've done to her, and I press my knife to his neck. "Do you remember?"

A light of horrified understanding comes to his eyes. "You're... her... sister..."

"Yes, you pathetically sick pile of worms. I'm her sister. And the boy you killed? That was my best friend."

He looks absolutely horrified. "I-"

I slash him open, too, the same way I killed his brother, making sure to cut across his windpipe so he can't scream. He falls, blood bubbling through his neck as he tries in vain to call for help. I shake my head at him. "Next time... don't kill someone and leave their loved ones alive. Because they _will_ hold a grudge. And they _will_ come back and kill you."

I wait for a few minutes, until the blood stops flowing and I know they're dead, and then I loot their bodies, taking the money they have on their person and stealing the cards every person gets when they decide to take on a job. Maybe I can complete some of these and try to get the money from them.

I drag their bodies to the river, maybe a quarter of a mile away, and dump them both. I don't need their bodies anywhere near _The Snuggly Duckling_, just waiting for someone to pin their murder on me. It doesn't make any sense for me to leave them.

I wash my own clothes in the river while I'm at it, letting the warm afternoon sun dry my cloak while I lay in the grass by the creek. I feel oddly... right. I finished what I needed to. I avenged Alora and Jordan. They're still dead... but now I feel like I can let them rest in peace. Knowing their killers are dead, too.

When everything's dry, I walk back to_ The Snuggly Duckling_, sitting back down where I was. The bartender looks me over. "Well, boy, what're ya back 'ere for?"

I smile. "I'd like a drink please. To celebrate a finished job."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN- Oh my gosh, guys, I am SO sorry. I'm going to try to get on a more steady schedule. This took me WAY too long. Rating and telling me you want to read more would be helpful, because it'll motivate me. :P**  
><em>

_**Thanks, guys, you make me feel like people really like how I write!**_


	7. Chapter 7

They're gone.

I still can't wrap my head around this fact. The people who murdered my sister and best friend are gone forever. I killed them.

It's a good thing, in my mind. They deserved it. They killed people, many more than I know, probably, they stole from people, they did all sorts of things that make me feel sick to think about. I didn't kill them for no good reason.

They deserved it.

Didn't they?

There's still this little part of me that isn't sure. That wonders if they died for a good reason or if I just... killed them. Killing them won't bring Alora or Jordan back. It won't make any of the terrible things they did any better. It won't make me stop hurting.

But, in a way, I guess it does. It means that they won't be able to hurt more people. It means that Alora and Jordan didn't die without a good reason.

It still hurts. But it hurts less knowing that there's someone out there who won't be killed, won't be hurt, won't be attacked because Alora and Jordan _were_. Because that made me angry enough to go after the Mitchells and put a stop to their thievery.

A permanent stop, maybe. But how else could I have done it? They were criminals. They wouldn't have stopped if I went up to them and asked politely. I needed to use force, and so I did. Criminals can't be trusted.

I laugh mirthlessly. Technically I'm a criminal too. Though, I suppose I really shouldn't be trusted either. I don't like people, so they're probably better off staying away from me.

I shift on the floor in the corner where I'm laying. I'm still unable to find somewhere to live, as my house is gone and I have close to no money, so someone's letting me share this room with four or five other people in exchange for helping with cleaning their shop. It's not a bad arrangement, as far as anything goes, since it gives me food and a roof over my head so I don't have to live in the forest and find food myself. Really, it's one of the best arrangements I could think of. The people who live here and are in charge of the shop don't ask too many questions, and they're not that bad.

There's a lot to think about, though. We're done cleaning up the shop for the day, the woman in charge is making dinner right now, and everyone else is out in the living room socializing, so I get a few moments of blissful peace before I have to go pretend not to hate these people.

I sigh. I guess it's not _these_ people I hate. I just don't like to get too close to people, because they tend to have their own interests in mind. These specific people are actually very kind and they seem to be fairly loving, something I don't expect out of people. I just can't think that they'd love me if I told them where I came from, if I told them who my mother was, if I told them everything I've done, if I told them the blood that drenches my hands in my dreams every night. They wouldn't accept me anymore, I know they wouldn't. They'd hate me, they'd be scared of me, and they'd throw me out.

Like everyone else.

I shrug, closing my eyes again. This is why I lie. This is why I don't tell them that I've ever killed. This is why I tell them that I haven't ever taken a job that required me to take back someone's bleeding, bruised corpse after they attacked me in more ways than just physical. This is why I don't tell them that I had a best friend who was murdered in front of my eyes for a few coins. This is why I don't tell them that I dressed and acted like a boy for months so that I could look for his murderers. This is why I don't tell them _how_ well I can fight when I'm provoked. This is why I don't let them know how much anger, how much resentment is held in my small frame.

Because I don't want more people hating me.

I don't _need_ more hate in my life.

I've never really been able to accept love from many people, not in a lasting way. I've kind of had better hate relationships than love relationships, which means that I can accept hatred much more than I can accept love. I rarely actually believe that people want to love me.

And I don't really care, honestly.

I've gotten along quite fine the last few months without someone to love me, I can last for quite a while longer. It hasn't been that hard for me to just accept that and move on.

I need something new to accomplish, though. I need a new story, a new... adventure. I could definitely go for something more than just tracking people down and capturing them.

_Capturing,_ mind you.

I've never taken a kill-only job, because I don't kill innocents. I don't care who you are, you couldn't pay me enough to kill someone who's never hurt me in my life and has no intentions of doing so. If they attack me, I'll kill them. But I can never know why I'm being asked to kill someone. For all I know, the person I'm being told to kill is a random innocent picked off the street. The person that gives me the job can kill them all they want, but I'm not going to do it myself.

There's a fine line between self-defense and murder. I will defend myself. I will not kill without being provoked.

This has been my thought pattern since I started taking these jobs. I have my knives now, knives that I paid an arm and a leg for, almost literally. I have a room and food, at least for the time being. I have a small reputation as someone who gets the job done, no matter what; I may as well, as I don't have much to live for outside of that.

I even have paper and paints sometimes.

Whenever I have extra money, I save it, and when it gets to a certain amount, I buy myself some more paper. I mix my own paints and I paint for a day. Usually that painting gets sold by a strange, small boy in a dark cloak that deals specifically in paintings for rich folk, and who disappears the next day. The boy takes one request after he sells a painting, and then he doesn't take another one until that painting is sold. The paintings are lusted after, as they are made to exactly personal specifications and people apparently really like them. If certain sources are to be believed, the boy doesn't understand why people like them so much, but he's more than willing to keep painting.

I'm just glad it gives me enough money that I can lead a fairly legal life.

"Fairly" being the key word there, but still.

I wish I could just be normal. I really wish that Alora and I had grown up in the village, loved and accepted. That we had been regular kids, been able to just be us.

Unfortunately, we weren't.

And wishing isn't going to help anything.

We were the people that we were, and that's fine.

I shrug. Well, okay. Maybe not _fine_. But it's definitely not something I can do anything about, so it's not something I'm going to think a lot about.

What's happened has happened. Yeah, the world is a dark and dangerous place, but it's a dark and dangerous place that I'm stuck in.

May as well make the most of it, right?

There's a knock at the door, and one of the men that's staying in this room opens it gently. He's a year and a half older than me, just about to turn 18, and he seems to be a very caring person. Warm, understanding dark grey eyes sit below a mess of blonde hair, hair that's always falling everywhere. He's always asking me the oddest questions, mainly calling me out when I say I'm fine and I'm not. His questions are never harsh or overbearing, though, they're always in that warm, loving tone. "Hey," he says gently. "Are you going to come eat?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"You need to," he softly replies. "You skip meals far too often for it to be good for you."

"I'm used to it," I sigh.

"You don't _need_ to be right now, though." He seems to have accepted it for granted that I had months where I barely ate and lived on the street. His questions are never about that, though, something that I am eternally grateful to him for. "Come on. Come eat. I'll let you sit next to me and be antisocial if you really want."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not going to be able to be antisocial out there."

"Maybe not, but not eating is bad for you." He jerks his head, motioning outside. "Come on."

I sigh and get up, running my hands through my hair so I can be sure that it's semi-decent. I walk to the boy, who rolls his eyes at me and runs his fingers through my hair again, making sure it's laying flat. "Your hair just doesn't like to be tamed, does it?"

Shrugging, I reply, "Not really."

I almost imagine that his fingers linger on the back of my head for an instant longer than is necessary before he pulls away. "Well, it's decent." He starts walking, then turns around. "I've never formally introduced myself." Holding out a hand, he smiles. "My name's Cade. What's yours?"

A moment of silence, of inwardly debating what to do, and then I nod. "Gothel," I reply. The name still feels heavy on my tongue, but I've killed Neiva. She doesn't exist anymore and I refuse to acknowledge her.

I slip my hand into his, and he grabs it, leading me into the dining room.

_Oh, great, another night of trying to be decently social._

But there's a note of hope, of having... maybe a friend.

Maybe even something more.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Meh. I feel like I was trying too hard in this chapter. I'm sure you can GUESS what happens with Gothel and Cade. But anyway, this is Gothel kind of summarizing her thoughts for you in this chapter. Next few chapters will have basically NO violence. I'm sorry if you like that. But then we'll get back to our regularly scheduled program of killing EVERYWHERE. :P**_

_**As always, if you review, I'll probably update faster, because I'll feel like someone's counting on me so they can read it. Even if you don't, though, I love you.**_


	8. Chapter 8

It's been six months now.  
>Things are kind of starting to get on my nerves, but I've stayed with this house for two months. The only other person who's stayed this long is Cade. Everyone else has been cycling in and out, hiding here for a few days before moving on. I actually feel rather safe here. Nobody's been able to find me.<br>And, odd as it may seem, Cade makes me feel safe.  
>I thought I had promised myself a while ago that I wouldn't let anyone else try to protect me, wouldn't get close to anyone, but it's hard to avoid with him. He's so... so... LOVING. I don't know. He WANTS to help me.<br>I've kept most of my secrets away from him. He doesn't know a lot about me, mostly only things I've told him about the past six or seven months. Doesn't know about the paintings. Doesn't know about the killing. Doesn't know about my job. I wish I could tell him, but I just can't. I don't want to lose a friend.  
>He knows that I'm hiding things, too. I've never lied to him; that I am extremely proud of. But the two of us have devised an unspoken agreement: I only speak about the things I want to speak about, and he follows, speaking only on the things he wants to speak about. It's worked well, and he's been fantastic about respecting when I don't want to talk about things.<br>He, however, is much more eager to talk. I've learned so much about him in these past months. His parents are fishers up by the seashore, Cade being their only child, and he came down here to find adventure and intrigue. The way he says those words, "Adventure and intrigue," never fails to make me smile. He's corny, but he's definitely REAL.  
>I've also learned that Cade didn't happen to find the adventure and intrigue he sought, and has instead settled for being a tailor's apprentice. As he aptly put it, "I've known how to be a fisherman all my life; I wanted to learn something else for a change."<br>He hasn't gotten to learn much of my past, though.  
>And I want that to change.<br>Over the last seven or eight months, we've grown very close. Close enough that I'd consider him my best friend, even as much as that scares me, knowing how my last best friend ended up. I didn't want to get this close to him, but I did.  
>And now I want to tell him where I've come from.<br>I am so scared. There's such a possibility that he'll hear and immediately drop me; the chance is huge that he'll completely hate me.  
>And I'll deserve it.<br>But I still have to tell him.  
>"Hey, Cade, when you get a second, I want to talk to you," I say absent-mindedly, walking past him as I finish cleaning the shop for the day.<br>He raises his head from where he's trying to make a shirt or something. His hair pours itself over his eyes, and he blows it up out of them. His dark eyes are bright, a cocky grin on his face. "Okay, cool. I want to tell you something too, so it works out."  
>"Whenever," I shrug. I'm still trying to convince myself to actually go through with this, not to just back out or it like a coward. It isn't going so well.<br>Another couple minutes pass, and he finds me in the bedroom. "Hey, Gothel."  
>"Hey, Cade." I'm still quiet.<br>"So, you wanted to talk to me?"  
>"Yeah," I sigh, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds. He sits across from me. "You also wanted to talk to me, though?"<br>"Well, yeah." He seems slightly shy about it, actually, which piques my curiosity.  
>"You go first..."<br>"Um, okay." He looks up to me with a slight smile on his lips. "So, we've known each other for a whole seven months, and I have actually gotten to know you pretty well in that time."  
>I skeptically glance at him. "'Pretty well'?"<br>"Yeah, actually." He grins. "You don't tell me some stuff, but we talk so often that I actually know a lot about you."  
>Thinking for a second, I realize he's got a point. "Okay, true. And I definitely know a lot about you."<br>"Right. And... I mean, you're one of the first people I've met with this innate ability to LISTEN."  
>I'm taken aback. "Really?"<br>"Yeah. You don't like people, but you're pretty much always willing to sit and actively listen. You don't usually give unwanted help, but I can always tell you're actually paying attention." He shrugs happily. "I really like that."  
>"Oh. Well, okay." I didn't know that. It makes me oddly happy. I'm very glad I listen to people, and I'm glad Cade likes that.<br>"And I really like how close we are." His voice gets slightly shy as he continues, "I feel like we know each other well enough now that I can ask you if... well..." His cheeks redden ever so slightly for a second, then he pushes out, "If you would be open to the idea of a courtship between us."  
>The sentence shocks me for a second. A courtship? No... what? I can't.<br>It's not that I don't want to. I like this boy, and there have definitely been fleeting moments when I wished I could be romantically involved with him. But... I can't.  
>I shake my head, tears slowly pooling in my eyes. "I... I'd love to... but... oh, GOSH. Listen to what I have to say," I sigh, voice breaking with tears, "because you're probably going to want to retract that when I'm done."<br>His face registers shock for a second, but he nods. "I don't think I will, but go ahead."  
>"Well, let's start from the beginning." I laugh bitterly. "I wasn't born Gothel. That's... that's technically my witch's name. I was born Neiva. My mother was a witch. Growing up, I had no father; my mother was basically a slut, and I never knew who my dad was. My sister, Alora, had a different father, it was evident in how she looked." I shrug, avoiding his eyes. "My mother died when I was twelve. I was young, but not overly, and I stubbornly took care of my little sister by myself. None of the villagers liked us, being witch's spawn," I snort a laugh. "I had one friend, who did help take care of us. His name was Jordan."<br>There's an intake of breath from Cade, but I hold a finger up to stop him, still not looking into his eyes. "You wait until I'm done with the story."  
>He quiets, and I continue. "We were basically okay for three years. I developed my painting skills over that time; it started because I wanted to preserve my memories of mom, but I kept doing it because I loved it. Jordan taught me how to make paints using the forest, and I saved up to get paper and made brushes out of sticks. I never told the anyone," I shrug. "They all said painting was a waste of time. And they were right; it took a lot of work to get the money for everything. But I loved it."<br>Again, a sharp breath. And again, I hold up my finger toward him, my eyes fixated firmly on my lap. "Do not interrupt me, boy. I will tell you when I'm done."  
>He seems to take this well, and I keep speaking. "One day, I went to the flower field by myself." Wincing, I almost choke as I remember how much Alora wanted to go. "I was painting. Jordan found me, told me I was an amazing painter, yelled at the fact that I burned my paintings for the most part."<br>"You-"  
>"WHAT did I say?" My anger peaks for a second, but then I'm right back to calm. "Hush."<br>He hushes, and I'm able to continue. "He realized why when I told him how much we were different. He was accepted. I wasn't. He could afford to pain. I couldn't. And he understood. Then I heard my baby sister scream. So I went to go look for her." Grasping a handful of my pants, I take a deep breath. "There were thieves there. Two of them. They killed Alora and Jordan for all of a couple coins." I choke on a sob, but manage to keep talking. "Alora died in my arms. It was horrible."  
>He sets a hand on my shoulder, almost comfortingly, but I shrug it off. I don't want him touching me. He's just going to leave it in a minute. "I took the name 'Gothel.' It's a witch's name, sure, but it's what I'd always said my witch's name would be. I don't identify as a witch, I suppose, although I'm sure I could, with all my mother taught me." Sighing, I continue, "I tracked down the men who killed them. Dressed as a boy and went pub-to-pub, looking for them. Finally, I found them and killed them." It doesn't take very much effort to keep my voice level. For all my tone's changing, we could be discussing business statistics. "Both of them. And I took on the official job of 'mercenary.' I capture people who need to be captured. Kill-only jobs are never where I'm interested, but I take capture-or-kill, and I defend myself."<br>I sigh heavily. "I can kill people with these daggers. I have, on many occasions. And it's my job." Finally, I end the monologue. "That's what I do. And that's where I come from. Feel free to hate me now." Again, my voice is level. Everyone else hates me, another doesn't much matter.  
>But hidden under that is pain. He really did like me just a second ago. And now I've taken that away just from what I've told him. I didn't want to. But it's not my choice.<br>Stupid past.  
>He speaks, voice hesitant. "You've just had a pretty rough go at life, haven't you." I can hear this concern in his voice that honestly confuses me. He shouldn't be concerned. He should tell me how much I should die, then walk out on me. I know how this works by now.<br>Suddenly, I realize he's waiting for a reply. "Yeah, I guess," I shrug.  
>He continues, "And everyone just hates you for that?"<br>"Basically. I mean, a lot of it is my mother, but you can hate me for myself too if you really want."  
>"But... Gothel... I don't hate you."<br>My head whips up to him, meeting his dark eyes. "Um, what?"  
>"I don't." He curiously looks into my eyes. "You avenged your best friend and sister's deaths. You take jobs that don't require killing, but you're not afraid to defend yourself. You can't help what your mother did." Nodding, he continues, "I love you regardless of what happened to you in the past. I mean... I really do. It doesn't really matter, because you're YOU."<br>The paragraph takes my breath away, and I can only really gape at him.  
>"Look, if you just killed people for fun, I might have a problem," he gently laughs. "But your job is just as valid as mine. It's just more dangerous."<br>"You... I..." I'm still not able to put together complete sentences. Focus. Thoughts. "You don't hate me?"  
>"Why in Corona would I hate you?" His eyes flash with laughter for half a second. "If I loved you without knowing this, I had better love you with it,"<br>"Really?"  
>"Really." He leans forward and gently rubs my shoulder. "It's who I am." Smiling, his eyes become hopeful. "So, my question still stands. Gothel, will you do me the honor of courting me?"<br>I can't even really believe what I'm seeing. What I'm hearing. I almost think it's just a dream.  
>But I guess, if it's a dream, I should live in it as much as I can.<br>"Of... of course, Cade," I laugh shakily. "I dang love you."  
>"And, believe me, I will stand by you whatever you choose." His smile is sweet as he pulls me up to stand next to him. "If other people don't like it, they can deal with it."<br>I laugh and throw my arms around his neck, resting my head on his chest contentedly. I haven't been this close to someone in ages. And I really do like it. Especially with Cade. He's so close to me... and he accepts me regardless.  
>I feel like I could have a lot of happiness with this man.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN  
><strong>__**I'm sorry if this seems super-rushed. It's just that he's not actually the main point of the story. But 's cute. :D**_

_**Anyway, I am SO SO SORRY I haven't been updating. Vacations and crap. I'm actually flying to San Diego tomorrow for a month for a camp. DX I swear, I'll get at least two, if not four, sections done. But yes. I hope you like it. I'll be back as soon as I can.**_


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